Wasted Time
by mousefiction
Summary: Two parts angst, one part marshmallowie brother fluff drowning in a bottle of whiskey in the middle of nowhere: Dean's deal is coming due, but the weather doesn't give a damn. Drunk, limp!Sam and big brother, pillow!Dean. For KKBElVIS
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural; no one, especially me, is making a profit from this fic._

_Setting: Season three. Set in between Time is on My Side and No Rest for the Wicked; it's sort of a tag for Time is on My Side. _

_Spoilers: If you haven't seen season three, don't read this. This fic has dialogue from and/or mentions stuff that happened in the following: the end of season two, Jus in Bello, Malleus Maleficarum, Crossroad Blues and Time is on My Side._

_I wanted to put Sam and Dean in a frustrating situation that was caused by something simple and unlikely, considering their situation with Dean's deal. _

_I also just wanted to write a big brother! Dean and limp, drunk! Sam fic. Even though both end up sort of drunk towards the end._

_This fic is dedicated to _KKBElVIS_, who asked me to do a fic in which Sam uses Dean as a pillow._

_Proofed by Twilightrayne and Wicked Rebel. _

* * *

The soft sound of rain bit into Sam's ears and penetrated through to his consciousness, chasing away the haze of sleep that was clouding his brain; reluctantly, he lost the battle to keep his eyes shut and submitted to the rain's relentless assault by slowly opening his sleep-starved eyes.

Each man had crashed earlier that morning, a few hours before dawn, after putting as much distance as possible between them and the now damned Bela and the eternally buried Dr. Benton. But as the Impala's gas tank had begun to approach empty, both men had silently agreed to stop for a few hours and get some sleep; they'd need it: even though the men still had Ruby's hex bags to protect them against the demon who held Dean's contract, they knew the bags wouldn't be enough to ward off all of the lower- level demons that were scattered around every corner of the lower forty-eight, each with the sole purpose of keeping a look out for the Winchesters. Both men were aware that they'd have to drop off the map in order to disappear from the demonic tracking radar.

Time was ticking down for Dean, and they needed to work fast if they were going to find and kill the holder of Dean's contract.

"_There's a big, new up-and-comer,"_ Ruby's voice wormed its way through Sam's brain. A feeling of sickness began to tighten in the pit of Sam's stomach, slowly infecting his intestines; he swore he could feel Tammi's breath, hot and wet at his ear, _"There's a new leader rising in the West, a real leader."_

"_The one who wants my intestines on a stick,"_ Sam thought bitterly to himself as he turned on his side, staring blankly at the chipped and cracking wall next to his bed.

"_Her name is Lilith."_

"_The one who's gonna tear this world apart." _

"_The one who's gonna tear Dean apart,"_ the thought bubbled up from the depths of Sam's subconscious and broke into his awareness so abruptly that his eyelids widened impossibly, threatening to pop his eyes out of his skull. The metal springs of the worn mattress groaned as Sam pitched his body forward and sat upright in his bed, flustered. _"The hell did I have to think _that_ for?"_ he thought as a tidal wave of guilt crashed into his core, flooding his conscience. Sam brought his hands up from the warmth of the bed sheets and, leaning his elbows on his knees, carded his hands through his hair, hoping the movement would somehow chase anymore unwanted thoughts from his mind, away from his brain. _"We still have time left. Little less than three weeks, but it's enough." _

The sound of the ceiling fan wafting quietly above him brought Sam's attention from his not-so-successful internal pep-talk to the stillness of the relatively small motel room. In fact, Sam noticed, it was damn near _quiet_. _"What the hell?"_ Sam's hands dropped from his face instantly as he turned to look at the bed closest to the door.

The _empty_ bed.

Sam felt the frown form on his face, pulling his facial muscles down as his brows knit together. "Dean?" The bed sheets fluttered delicately to the side as Sam's socked feet hit the floor, pulling him from the warmth of the semi-comfortable bed. In a few quick strides, Sam made his way to the bathroom, which was also empty.

"_What the hell, we were just supposed to sleep and leave,"_ Sam thought as he anchored a hand on the bathroom's door frame, using it to balance himself as he leaned back to survey the room. Taking a glance around, he noticed that the Impala's keys were still sitting on the small table by the door where Dean had unceremoniously tossed them earlier that morning.

"_Well, at least I know he didn't take the car somewhere. 'Might as well call him." _Letting go of the doorframe, Sam made his way to the nightstand that was placed in between their beds; half way across the room, he noticed the note placed under his cell phone, causing his step to somewhat quicken. Grabbing his phone in one hand, he picked up the note in the other; eyes passing over the paper sprawled with Dean's handwriting, Sam felt annoyance begin to bubble in the pit of his stomach.

_Walked to the bar—5:00pm_

Sam frowned,_ "Walked? It's raining." _His eyes glanced over to the clock situated on the night stand, _"5:45. Great, he could've at least woken me up or something. What the hell is he thinking, anyway?"_ An aggravated sigh passed through Sam's lips as he crushed the note between strong fingers and tossed it at the wastebasket that was across the room. Sam had Dean's number dialed and his phone up to his ear before the crumpled note landed at the bottom of the bin.

The phone rang three times before Dean answered.

"Sam," Dean's voice came through the cell's receiver muffled, distorted by the chatter and noise happening in bar's background.

"Dean," Sam tried to keep his voice measured, his annoyance in check, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just hustling the locals," Dean smirked.

Shutting his eyes, Sam let out another sigh; his fingers found their way to his forehead in an attempt to ward off the headache the present conversation threatened to deliver, "We have enough money, man--."

Dean cut Sam's words off, "It will only last a few more weeks, dude."

A few more weeks.

The annoyance Sam had been trying to keep in check suddenly flared, pushed up from his stomach and flew from his esophagus, "Dean! That's _all_ we need right _now_; you only have a _few more weeks_! Hell, after we leave here it's not like we are going to need much for gas; we aren't even going to need it for a motel. So just get your ass back here; we need to leave."

"Dude! _Why_ the _hell_ are you so pissed off? I mentioned hustling some pool after passing this place when we drove into town _this morning_. You didn't say anything about it then!"

"Was I sleeping?" Sam dead panned.

"No, jackass, I can tell when you're sleeping; you weren't asleep and you know it: stop trying to piss me off," Dean shot back.

"Then I thought you were being sarcastic. That or 'chalked it up to lack of sleep; either way, I didn't think you were serious, what with your deal due in--."

"Stop throwing that in my face, I know how much time I have left!"

"Then why are you wasting time earning money we don't need right now!?" Sam thundered at the phone.

"Because maybe I didn't want to wake you up because you haven't slept more than six hours these past couple of days. I know, 'cause I haven't either. Neither of us can find this demon if we can't stay awake long enough to do it. Or maybe it's 'cause I want something else to do besides sitting in some small motel room in the middle of nowhere, thinking about how I'm probably gonna be in hell after the next few weeks. Hell, maybe it's both those things."

Sam felt himself deflate as his shoulders slumped. "Dude…" Sam begun, "_The hell can I say to that?"_ Silence fell as neither man said anything, since there was nothing that could be said. "Dean, just-- I'm awake now, we need to head out, anyway. Just come back, man, so we can leave."

"No. I'm in the middle of a game," Dean started; Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean beat him to it, "And that doesn't matter anyway. We can't leave. You didn't check the voice mail I left you. I literally just sent it ten minutes ago."

Sam's brows knit together and, although he knew he wouldn't be able to check his missed calls while the phone was in use, he quickly pulled the phone away and glanced at its screen. "Uh…" Pulling the phone back to his ear, Sam frowned, "I didn't see it, no."

"Yeah, I know: that's why I wasn't asking when I said, 'You didn't check the voice mail I--.'"

"Why can't we leave?"

"Notice the rain? It was worse this morning and this place is below sea level. Roads leading outta this place got flooded; they'll be closed until the water goes down."

Sam was across the room before Dean finished his sentence. Pulling back the thin and tattered motel curtain, he glanced out of the clouded glass; a gray, wet world greeted him: water sprinkled from the rolling mass of black and gray above him; and, although water pooled in deep puddles around the parking lot, the weather certainly didn't seem like it would cause flooding. "It doesn't look that bad. It's just sprinkling now. You said it was worse this morning?"

"It doesn't look that bad _there_; and yea: it got bad a few hours after we checked in this morning; you just slept through it."

"You check and see if there were any alternative routes outta this place?"

"If there had been, we'd have left by now. I thought about just driving through, but you know what they say on the Weather Channel, 'Turn around, don't drown.' 'Would suck dying and going to hell early 'cause of a few feet of water. " A pause, "Lame, too."

"Dean--."

"Sam. I'm in the middle of a game," Dean dead panned.

The muscles in Sam's jaw pulled taut and his mouth snapped shut instantly, "Yea, I'll just--." Before Sam could suggest heading to the bar, Dean rambled, "Since we can't leave this place, you wanna check online, see if anything lookin' like omens have been popping up anywhere? Cattle deaths or lightning storms, 'get some ideas were this demon could be? I shouldn't be here much longer. I'll give you a hand."

Sam's face sobered; it was obvious Dean wanted Sam to stay at the motel. "Yea, sure," Sam spoke flatly, letting Dean know he was on to him, "But we can't leave, anyway, so you might as well take your time."

There was a pause from Dean, "Yea, I'll see ya when I get back, Sammy."

"Later." The hand holding his phone dropped to his side, while the other continued to hold the curtain back. Sam's head slowly leaned forward and he rested his forehead against the window, his breath fogging the glass after each raspy puff. Sam's eyes stared blankly at the world outside, watched as the raindrops collected in puddles on the motel's window seal.

Each drop sent dread shooting throughout Sam's body, causing him to close his eyes. Dean had less than three weeks left and the _weather_ was preventing them from leaving, from finding Lilith.

A feeling of helplessness began to overshadow Sam: he had spent the entire year researching, trying to find a way to save his brother, but now, something fundamental and ordinary, something that was beyond his control, _"Rain, of all things,"_ threatened to put a road block in his search for Lilith. A road block that happened to surface at an extremely inopportune time: Dean's deal coming due in two weeks didn't leave any room for wasted time.

But this was exactly what Sam and Dean got: wasted time in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

"_How fucked up is this?"_

Sam released his hold on the curtain and tossed his phone onto his bed; settling down at the small table next to the window, Sam opened his laptop and waited for it to boot up.

The search was unproductive, and the poor Wi-Fi connection did not help ease Sam's frustration. Unable to find any leads, Sam found himself sitting in silence in the small motel room, the steady pelting of rain against the motel's roof and windows the only sound circulating in the room. Unseeing eyes darkening as they locked on the computer's screen, Sam's fingers went slack on the keyboard. _"How many times have I been here before?"_ Sam thought, scoffing. The situation he found himself in presently was a familiar one: glued to his laptop, searching for any clues that would help him save his older brother.

"_And where has that gotten me?"_ he thought bitterly, slamming his laptop shut and rising from his seat.

Crossing over to the other side of the room, Sam stopped next to his bed and opened his duffle, pulling out a bottle of whiskey.

Sam glanced back toward his laptop, the thought passing through his mind again, "_Where has that gotten me?"_

His thumb flicked across the bottle's cap, sending it rolling across the room's floor.

"_Nowhere."_

_

* * *

_

_Notes: I was planning on making this a one-shot, but the word count ended up being over 7,000. So I'm making this fic span three chapters. It's all done; I'm just editing the last chapter._

_Constructive reviews welcome._

_Mouse_


	2. Chapter 2

_Notes: Same disclaimer and notes from the first chapter._

_By the way, this chapter mentions Evan Hudson from Crossroad Blues. (Spoiler if you haven't seen that episode) The guy that saved his wife from cancer by selling his soul for her. It was in Season Two. Bells ringing, hopefully?_

_Also, I don't know how to play pool, so if it sounds off or weird, know that I was just winging it._

* * *

Dean flipped his phone shut once the line went dead. _"Well, _that_ went well,"_ he thought as he rolled his eyes to himself and pushed himself off of the wall he was leaning against. _"'Didn't plan on him waking up 'til I got back." _

The crack of the cue stick against the cue ball narrowed Dean's attention; two quick strides had him back at the table, and he watched as two solids were pocketed, throwing the last remaining balls in odd, but calculated, directions. _"Geez, can't get a break, can I? This was supposed to be over minutes ago," _the words made their way through Dean's brain just as the cue struck the cue ball, bouncing the solid white orb around each side of the pool table until it was sent tumbling into the table's upper right pocket. A soft curse from his opponent split the air as a grin spread across his face, _"Guess I spoke too soon."_

A couple of beers and a few games of pool later, his wallet was at least a pound heaver, and Dean found himself sitting at a small table in the corner of the poorly lit bar, staring at a tacky, pink calendar that still had its pages flipped on March even though that month had already come and gone some time ago. "Looks like no one gives two shits about you," Dean remarked absently as he reached up to turn the calendar to the appropriate month. He scanned the page automatically, counting down the days he had left. "A little over two weeks," he said to himself as his hand plopped down onto his lap. _"And the thing that owns my soul also wants Sammy's intestines on a friggin' stick."_ Taking another glance at the calendar, he worked his fingers against his left temple,_ "…Two weeks is pushing it, but I can't leave him alone with that thing, with Lilith."_

"_I need your help with Sam,"_ Ruby had told him; _"You need to help me get him ready for life without you, to fight this war on his own."_ The notion of leaving his brother alone with not only Ruby, but with the demon who saw his brother as competition made Dean's stomach turn, causing him to close his eyes. _"Two weeks has ta' be enough." _Opening his eyes towards the window he was sitting next to, he glared at the puddles collecting water on the sidewalk, _"But we would have more time if it hadn't of friggin' flooded,"_ he mentally cursed at the rain.

Dean pulled his eyes from the water outside and sent a glance over the bar's patrons.

"_So, all of them, every damn demon, they were human once?"_ Dean remembered asking Ruby.

"_Everyone I ever met. Most of them have forgotten what it means, or even that they were. That's what hell is: forgetting what you are." _

The soft pelting of rain on glass drew his attention back to the window he was leaning against, and he stared directly at his reflection.

"_The same thing will happen to you; it might take centuries, but hell will burn away your humanity: every hell bound soul turns into something else. 'Turns you into us." _

The finality of Ruby's tone sent a shiver running though his blood and had Dean turning from his reflection; moving his hand through his cropped hair, Dean smirked bitterly to himself, _"Here I told Sam I didn't want to be stuck in a motel room thinkin' 'bout how I'd be in hell in a few weeks, and here I am doing just that." _Dean's face sobered as the remembered the call Sam had made to him earlier; he knew that Sam was aware that he didn't want him coming to the bar, but he hadn't wanted Sam to know the stakes of the games he'd been playing. "'Don't wanna head downstairs early." Downing the last of the beer he'd been drinking, he thought, _"'Course, a little over two weeks ain't that much, but what the hell." _Dean's brows knit together: a little over two weeks didn't seem that much, especially with the prospect of spending eternity in hell loomed in his horizon.

Eternity in hell.

"_There's a real fire in the pit,"_ Ruby's voice chimed in his head, _"Agonies you can't even imagine."  
_

Dean let out an exasperated sigh, pushing the empty beer bottle away from him, "Christ, even when she's not here that skank annoys the crap outta me." The legs of his chair slid across the wooden floor as Dean stood and made his way towards the exit. The alcohol in the pit of Dean's empty stomach churned through his system and swirled in his blood stream, causing his gait to sway somewhat, but he was able to maneuver his way through the mass of people and clouds of cigarette smoke successfully. Dean could feel the weight of his wallet press against his thigh as he moved, _"At least I can leave him something if I don't make it."_ He paused, reaching for the exit's door handle, "Yea. That'll make him feel a hell of a lot better,"he said to himself, voice gruff and bitter with sarcasm.

A sheet of rain hit Dean's side as he walked onto the sidewalk, soaking his shirt, and sent a slight shiver coursing down his spine, but the alcohol coating his blood dulled the sensation. A flash of lightening sent his shadow cascading against the bar's entrance, and he looked up to watch the rain fall as a rumble of thunder ripped across the sky. "You can't be serious. What did I ever do to you?" he said aloud to the storm above him; setting his gaze back in front of him, he grit out, "If it gets worse, we'll never get out of this friggin' town, and I don't wanna die in the middle of b-f nowhere."

Earlier that morning, Dean had made a point to check in someplace close to a bar so, between thoughts of, "_Why, of all places, did we have to stop someplace that's below sea level and next to a friggin' river?"_ and _"I'm going to throttle something if some douche bag's car sprays water on me,"_ Dean made it back to the motel parking lot in relatively good time.

Striding up to the Impala, Dean unlocked the door and placed most of the money he earned in an envelope in the car's glove box. _"I'll move that tomorrow 'fore he gets up. 'Need to give it to Bobby the next time we see him." _

After shutting the glove box and locking the Impala, Dean trekked through the puddle-ridden parking lot, splashing water on his already soaked jeans, and made his way to his and his brother's motel room.

* * *

Sam lay in his bed, right arm hanging limply from the bed's side, with the near-empty whiskey bottle held loosely between his fingers.

Two weeks and a couple of days: that's all that was left for his older brother. Images of hellhounds rocked Sam's mind: mammoth, bloodthirsty canines donning putrid flesh and lethal fangs tearing open his brother's flesh and dragging him into a pit of fire and despair. Dean's desperate cries for his brother's help echoed mercilessly throughout his brain. A strangled noise fought its way out of Sam's throat, and he pushed himself up in the bed, swinging his legs over the side so his feet were planted firmly to the floor; the sudden movement sent his vision swimming and his stomach churning violently, causing him to rest his head in his palm, his elbows on his knees.

His mind flickered back to the day he learned Dean had sold his soul for him, the day his brother had pierced one of the colt's bullets through Azazel's meat suit, terminating the demon that had haunted them throughout their lives. _"I don't care what it takes: I'm gonna get you outta this," _he had told the anger brewing deep within his core, Sam felt a bitter grin stretch across his face.

"I'm gonna get you outta this?" he repeated, mocking himself.

Sam's grip on the whiskey bottle strengthened as he threw his arm back and sent the bottle sailing though the air, crashing it against the room's door, sending a wave of glass and amber splashing over the room's carpet. "If I had more time!" he bellowed as he lurched forward, the momentum of the throw causing the room to spin as his brain floated helplessly within his skull. A burning sensation shot up Sam's legs as his knees collided with the floor, scrapping across the room's rough carpet. The fall tossed Sam's upper body towards Dean's bed, his abdomen catching the side of his brother's mattress; the impact with the soft surface flipped Sam's stomach wildly, and the back of his throat stung as hot, sour bile shot from his mouth and washed over Dean's bed sheets.

"_I can help you, I know what you need: I can read the formula for you. You know, immortality: forever young, never die,"_ Dr. Benton's offer rang between his ears as Sam pulled himself off of the ground, his body swaying dangerously as the whiskey in his system flowed throughout his body. "_That_ would have given us more time," he choked. _"What he is isn't living," _Dean had told him, flatly. "Neither is going to hell," he let out as a sob racked his body. A sudden swell of sickness rolling up from his stomach had the sob quickly morphing into a gag, leaving him tripping over his feet as he made a dash for the motel's small bathroom.

The room whirled around him as he moved, disorienting his vision and increasing his nausea. Sam's hand shot to his mouth as he bumped into the bathroom's door frame, the collision sending the familiar stinging sensation throbbing throughout his throat. Pushing the half opened door aside, Sam's socked feet hit the smooth tile too quickly, causing him to slip; knees buckling, his free hand clutched the shower curtain in a death grip only to hear the rip of the curtain as he landed hard on his hip, sending his stomach over the edge: vomit burst out of his mouth and through his fingers, oozing down part of his shirt and pooling in his lap.

"Damn it," he pushed out breathlessly as he wiped his soiled hand across his mouth. Looking up, he watched as the porcelain bowl rotated around him as if he were the sun. Bringing both hands to the floor, Sam propelled himself forward, _"Hope m'aim's right,"_ and violently heaved into the bowl, causing toilet water to splash onto his face. He didn't have time to react, however, as wave after wave of painful nausea slammed into him, forcing the whiskey he had downed earlier to make its second appearance.

Sam's legs began to go numb against the hard tile as the minutes ticked away; sweat dotted his throbbing forehead, trickling down his face. As his stomach began to empty, he sat back on shaky legs and leaned his back against the cool side of the bathtub, gasping for air; but the smell of the vomit wafted from the toilet and assaulted his sense of smell. Face contorting in disgust, he pushed himself off of the floor and dragged his feet towards the sink. Turning on the faucet, Sam splashed cold water over his face.

"_I wish none of this had ever happened." _

The thought caused Sam's hands to stop sending the cool tap water over his face, and he stood there, still as a statue.

Cold Oak.

Jake.

"_Only one of us is getting outta here. The Yellow-Eyed demon, he's not letting us go: only one."_

Only one.

"I died," he said to himself, voice only a fraction above a whisper. "You shouldn't have made the deal," he spoke aloud to an absent Dean.

"_I had to. I had to look out for you: that's my job."_

The faucets squeaked as Sam turned off the water and straightened his spine. Narrowing his eyes, he stared into the bathroom's mirror, locking onto his reflection. "If you had killed Jake," Sam began as he balled his right hand into a fist, skin stretched over bone turning his knuckles white, "Dean wouldn't be dying in a few weeks." Angered boiled over in the pit of his stomach and shot out as his fist collided with his reflection. "He wouldn't be dying!" he bellowed again as glass shards rained down upon the tile. Warmth spilled over Sam's hand as drops of blood gushed from his split knuckles.

A sob pushed past Sam's lips, and he put the back of his uncut fist against his mouth. "'Wouldn't be going to hell," he whispered to himself as wetness filled his vision.

* * *

Dean trudged up to their room's door and fumbled with the keys, fingers clumsy due to the rain coating his hands and the alcohol dulling his senses. When the key successfully found the lock, a slight grin upturned the corner of his lips, but the smile fell away when he heard his younger brother shout, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. Brows furrowing, Dean had the door flying open instantly and his gun ready as he quickly moved into the room.

The smell of vomit and whiskey hit him as soon as he was past the doorway; the crunch of glass underneath his boots had him stealing a glance at the floor. _"Broken Jack Daniel's,"_ looking up, "Sammy?" The room was dark and empty, but the bathroom's light was on.

Dean was across the room in seconds. "Sammy, what the h--," he started, but stopped as soon as his eyes fell on Sam's form, his hands anchored to the bathroom's doorframe, holding him up, head hung loosely from his neck. Placing his gun back in his waistband, Dean looked over his brother, eyes taking in the vomit smeared across his mouth and chin, staining his clothes, the tear streaks running down his face, and the blood oozing off his hand. Moving his glance behind Sam, Dean noted the torn shower curtain lying haphazardly across the tiled floor, the broken mirror, and the shattered glass, glistening like diamonds in the fluorescent light.

Hand running down his face, Dean's mouth went slack as he thought, _"I'm not sober enough to deal with this." _Swallowing, he hashed out, "Sammy--dude, what gives?" Moving closer, hands reaching out to take Sam's bloody appendage, "Dude, what did you do? I tell ya to check for omens and you end up drinking yourself to hell--."

To hell.

Sam jerked his hand away from Dean's grasp. Dean's mouth pulled into a frown as Sam pushed himself into Dean's personal space, towering over him. Dean's spine automatically straightened in defense, "Dude, what gives--." A fist landing hard and sharp against his jaw cut off his words. Stumbling backwards, his vision swam and the alcohol in his blood caused his body to lurch to the side, hip smacking against the room's back wall. His hand instantly shot up to his jaw, wincing when his fingers brushed small shards of glass from his face.

"Sonuva_bitch_," Dean cursed out, "What the _hell_ was _that _for?" he bit out harshly, looking towards his brother, who was swaying dangerously on his feet.

Sam stared at his brother through blurry vision. Narrowing his eyes he spit out, "Raincheck."

Before Dean could question him further, Sam was looming over him again. Dean felt his wet clothes pealing away from his neck as Sam's hands gripped the collar of his shirt, pushing him into the wall.

"_I'm not sober enough for this shit,"_ Dean thought again as his hands locked around Sam's wrists in a vice grip, ready to throw them off and free himself from his brother's drunken grasp. His hands froze as he heard a sob grit its way through Sam's clenched teeth. Loosening his hold on Sam, Dean ducked his head in an attempt to peer through his little brother's shaggy bangs. "Sammy--."

"What's dead should stay dead, Dean," Sam spoke flatly, tilting his head upward, giving Dean a view of his wet, but angry eyes. Sam's breath wisped in Dean's face, sending a cloud of vomit and whiskey swirling beneath Dean's nose. _"Eww…."_ Scrunching his nose and turning his head slightly to the side, Dean breathed out, "Dude, two words: _tic tac_."

Sam didn't miss a beat, "You wouldn't be going to hell now if --."

Knowing where this was going, Dean shot him an exasperated look and cut him off quick, "Shut it, Sam; it's done." Tightening his hold on his brother's wrists, he began pushing himself away from the wall, "Now, come on. You gotta get outta those clothes. The smell's killin' me." Cringing at the poor choice of words, he took another step towards Sam's bed, but felt himself pushed back towards the wall; rolling his eyes, Dean hashed out, "Sam--."

"Did you ever think about me in all this?" Sam threw back the words Dean had told Evan Hudson. "Huh?"

Dean shut his eyes in irritation. "I did this for you," Dean threw the words Evan had thrown at him back at Sam.

Sam's eyes darkened. "You sure about that?" came the response.

Locking eyes with his brother, Dean immediately tightened his grip on Sam's wrists, throwing them to the side before Sam could continue.

He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear the words he'd told Evan all that time ago.

"_I think you did it for yourself, so you wouldn't have to live without her. But guess what? She's gonna have to live without you now. What if she knew how much it cost? What if she knew it cost your soul? How do you think she'd feel?"_

Evan's wife never knew he'd sold his soul to cure her cancer, but Sam did know that Dean sold his soul to bring him back to life.

Sam had stumbled back from the force of Dean's shove, back slamming against the wall. Grunting, his vision hazed over as more bile spurted from his mouth. Knees giving out from under him from sheer dizziness, Dean's hands were instantly planted on Sam's shoulders, keeping him upright.

"Hey, hey. C'mon, Sasquatch." He started leading Sam's swaying, clumsy form over to the bed, but Sam's hand shot out and planted on Dean's chest, stopping their forward momentum. Looking up at him, Sam's voice broke.

"I know how much it cost, Dean."

"Dude, man, don't do this," Dean said tiredly as he swiped Sam's hand from his chest, but the hand reappeared as quickly as it had been pushed away, pressing firmly against his older brother's chest. His blood rain cold when he heard Sam's voice, hoarse and shaken, "Everyone around me dies."

Suddenly, Dean found himself back in Cornwall, Connecticut, at the Pierpont Inn: stuck in a room with a drunken Sammy, begging his older brother to promise to kill him if he ever turned into something he wasn't.

"_Please, I don't want another repeat of _that_,"_ Dean thought wearily, but was pulled to the present as he felt his younger brother's weight bear down against his chest.

"_Even now, everyone around me dies!"_

"_Yea, well, I'm not dying, okay?"_

Dean's eyes shut at the memory. "Sammy…." Breath hitching and brain throbbing, Sam set his forehead against Dean's shoulder, breath stained with alcohol and bile ghosting over Dean's wet clothes. Sniffing, Sam whispered, "Everyone dies: even you." The words sent a stake slamming into Dean's chest, _"Damn it, dude…."_

"_If you die, who's going to watch out for me?" _Sam thought as he heard more than felt his arms falling limply to his side, fevered skin and useless muscle slapping lifelessly against his jean-covered and vomit-stained thighs. The whiskey running laps around Sam's body sent a thick haze throughout his skull, fogging his brain completely. Dean's body stiffened beneath Sam as his baby brother's legs buckled, body sagging further against his big brother. Sam winced when he felt a tightness wind around his middle as Dean snaked an arm around his younger brother, keeping him from slumping to the ground. Gagging, Sam watched as the floor spun in circles beneath his feet; darkness crept into Sam's vision as his knees gave way. His older brother's voice swirled in his ear, tickling his neck as he lost consciousness.

"I gotcha, Sammy. I gotcha."

_

* * *

_

_Notes: _

_I wanted to play around with Dean angst, so I threw in the first section of this chapter._

_I came up with this version of a drunk Sam after watching part of I Know What You Did Last Summer and Playthings. _

_One more chapter to go; it should be up sometime tomorrow. After I get back from school; spring semester is starting. :( I miss the break already._

_Constructive reviews welcome._

_Mouse_


	3. Chapter 3

_Same disclaimer and notes as before._

_This is the fluffy chapter featuring Dean as a pillow. So, if you don't like fluff, just save yourself now and run away._

_Also, I have never written fluff like this before (but I read it all of the time!) so bear with me._

_Spoiler: Mystery Spot_

_By the way, I don't think I have to say this, but I'm gonna just in case: No, no wincest._

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_The rumble of the Impala's engine cut across the silence blanketing the night like a knife, tires eating mile after mile of blacktop with each state passed. _

_After that fateful Wednesday in which Dean had died and Sam had not woken up, he went on autopilot, going from hunt after hunt, relentless in his search for the Trickster._

_He planned his hunts alone and he hunted alone._

'_Ate alone._

'_Slept alone._

'_Patched injuries himself, alone._

_He did everything alone because he was alone._

_Alone without his big brother._

_Bobby's calls were ignored: they weren't important. All that mattered was finding the Trickster, getting his big brother back. _

"_Sam? It's Bobby. I found him."_

_That call hadn't been ignored._

_He remembered the blood dripping from the stake he'd plowed into Bobby's back; he remembered how uncertainty and regret had eaten away at his stomach as Bobby's form lay before him, the possibility that he'd made a mistake pummeling into his mind._

_Relief had washed over him as Bobby's body had shimmered and vanished, the stake protruding from his back flying into the Trickster's hands._

"_Bring him back," he'd begged the Trickster._

"_Who, Dean? Didn't my girl send you the flowers? Dean's dead. He ain't coming back. His soul's downstairs doing the hellfire rumba as we speak. Sometimes you just gotta let people go."_

"_He's my brother," Sam had said brokenly in response._

"_Yup. And like it or not, this is what life's gonna be like without him."_

_A life without Dean alive was a life of loneliness._

Thunder rattled the windows, shaking Sam from the depths of unconsciousness. A merciless throb pounded in his head, leaving a sickening, high pitched ringing floating in his ears. Confused, he sent a tentative touch to his forehead which brought an achy sensation burning throughout the appendage. _"What th'ell…?"_ Groaning and brows knitting together, Sam inspected his hand with closed eyes, running his uninjured hand over the aching one. _"'R those' stitches? What happened?"_ he thought as he slowly opened his eyes.

Blackness greeted him.

Sending a glance towards the motel window and then to the clock on the nightstand, he asked himself aloud, "'S night already?" The sound of his voice sent a sharp pain spiking in between his ears. "Ugh," he gagged as he curled on his side, facing Dean's bed. Dean's _empty_ bed. _"Naw' back yet?"_ he thought, brows furrowing further, frown deepening. Dean's absence assuring him a lack of teasing, Sam let out a slight whimper as he reached for his phone, "'Should call 'em…." Hands fumbling clumsy and blindly in the dark, a wave of dizziness ascended upon him as he felt his fingers knock against his phone, sending it tumbling to the floor. Letting out a frustrated and garbled curse, he flopped back onto the bed, closing his eyes.

Lying there, the veil of confusion covering his brain began to slowly lift away.

Motel room, rain. Flooding.

Closed roads; Dean's voice over his cell phone, _"Turn around, don't drown."_

Dean off at a bar, playing pool.

A bottle of Jack Daniel's and an eternity spent on the cold bathroom floor, blowing chunks.

Anger and frustration leaving the bathroom mirror shattered and broken. Feeling over his injured hand he thought, _"'Don' remember patching it up…."_ Fingers moved over each stitch, bringing the image of Dr. Benton's stitched and jig-sawed face slamming into his mind.

Two more weeks, and no immortality formula to buy them both extra time.

Two weeks.

Listening to the rain outside, Sam thought,_ "Damn it, Dean; we needed more time…."_

Sam bit back a sob, turning onto his stomach. Senses returning full force, the pounding in his head and the ache in his hand doubled; his stomach churned sickeningly. Curling his legs under him, Sam grimaced as he felt his knees burn as they slid against the bedding. Seeking comfort, Sam extended his good hand in search of his pillow. Moving his arm to and fro against the bed sheet failed to supply the much desired item. Tilting his head so his chin rested against the mattress, Sam let his eyes adjust to the darkness, scanning the area in front of him. "Where's it?" he said aloud absently as he branched his arm out further, swiping across the full length of the upper part of the bed. Brushing against something warm and soft, Sam let loose a sigh of relief as he slid an arm around the softness and snuggled his face and aching body into the warmth.

"Whoa, hey: I'm not that drunk, Sammy."

Sam's heart nearly burst out of his chest in surprise, arms pin-wheeling as he floundered backwards, away from his older brother. "Hey, watch it!" Dean cried as Sam's hands missed the side of the bed, sending his upper body swaying precariously over the mattress. Shooting his hands out, Dean clamped on Sam's shoulders, pulling him away from the edge of the bed, stopping his little brother's descent towards the floor. Brain smacking against his skull and eyes swimming in their sockets, Sam buried his face against the solid, but soft muscles of his older brother's upper body, grounding himself as his stomach flipped and his brain pounded behind his eyes.

Curling a hand around Sam's neck, Dean gently pulled them both back down on the bed, half of Sam's upper body situated against his chest. "Would you chill out, dude. What is this? 'Give Dean a Heart Attack Day'?" Feeling Sam's labored breaths puff warmth against his skin, he added, "Sam. You gonna harff on me?" Shaggy hair tickled his skin as Sam weakly shook his head 'no,' his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed down the bile in his throat.

"Good: it would suck if I'da had to kill you with my deal comin' due."

"Hilarious," Sam let out, voice shaky and rough from exhaustion and dizziness; shifting his weight, his fingers grazed something soft under his brother's head. A confused look planted itself on Sam's face as he wrapped his fingers around the soft surface, "Dean? Did you--?" Other hand snaking around his brother, Sam's whiskey-ridden brain didn't notice he'd encircled his brother in a sort of pseudo-hug, "Did you _steal _my pillow??" Fingers brushing against more downy softness, he spit out, "Dude! Why'd you take both of them??"

"Little brothers who harff on their big brother's beds don't get to have pillows," Dean stated, dead serious.

"I did _what_?"

"You heard me. 'Sides, you got a better one," humor made its way into Dean's tone.

"Yea… whatever, Dean. Doesn't that kill the point?"

"Oh, come on, Sammy: a lot of women would love to be where you are right now."

"Ugh, Dean!" Sam half-whined, cringing. "Do you want me to blow chunks?" Sam huffed, wrapping his uninjured hand around his stomach. After a beat, something flickered in the back of his mind and he asked, "Why'dn't you want me at the bar?"

Dean's eyes automatically rolled at the question._ "Damn. Leave it to Sammy to remember that kinda crap while shit-faced…." _Opening his mouth, "What?" he asked, jokingly indignant. "I can't have you around cramping my style all the time, can I?"

Sam scoffed, "Not funny." A sad smile lifted the corners of Dean's lips; moving his thumb across the back of Sam's head, he responded, "Nothin's funny when you're hung over, Sammy."

"Dean, 'you petting me?"

"Shut up, Sam: I've been drinkin'," Dean let the half-assed excuse out gruffly, but kept moving his thumb in soothing circles underneath his baby brother's hair.

"Is that how we ended up in bed together?"

Sam felt a sharp pain ghost above his ear as Dean flicked his fingers against his head. "No, bitch: you heaved on mine, remember? If I wasn't such a great guy I'd had just dumped you on my bed, vomit covered sheets and all," he brought his free hand up and swept Sam's bangs out of his face. "Aren't you lucky that I'm such an awesome big brother, hmm?"

Opening his eyes half mast, Sam stared at his brother, "You didn't realize it until you threw me on my bed, jerk."

Smirking, "Yea: I didn't feel like dragging your drunken ass around anymore, so I left you here."

"Gee, thanks."

Both lay quietly for a moment, listening to the rain splatter against the window. "We aren't getting outta this place anytime soon, are we?" Sam asked, mostly to himself.

"'Heard at the bar that it'd be clearing up sometime tonight. We should be able to get outta here sometime tomorrow. 'Flood water shouldn't take long to clear out."

"_At least that's some good news,"_ Sam thought to himself; after a second he added aloud, "Dean, why'd you _walk _to the bar when it's _raining_, anyway?" A chuckle made its way up from Dean's throat, "What? Can't a guy sing in the rain if he wants to?" Rolling his eyes Sam dead panned, "You don't have anything to sing about, Dean."

Dean's grin fell away. "Yea, you're right: I don't. Not when I get back to our motel room that's been _trashed _all the way to hell by my _trashed_ little brother. It wasn't fun patching up your hand, either. Way to go, Sammy boy." At Dean's words, Sam's eyes fell from his brother's face and he turned his head to the side, head underneath Dean's chin, ear pressed above his heart.

"What? No bitch-face, smartass remark? 'Cause seriously, Sam, for someone whose a 'big boy' and can 'take care of himself,' you sure as hell don't act like it."

"Dean--," Sam started, bringing his uninjured hand up from his stomach to massage his eyes in an attempt to dull the throbbing.

"No, Sam: don't. What the hell were you thinking, bro?"

"_Your deal. That we're running outta time. That you could be dead in two weeks. That I could be alone before the month's up. You in hell with no way for me to get you out, not being able to save you,"_ Sam thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut.

A crack of lightning sent flashes of yellow dancing through the room; despite the thunder echoing outside, a heavy silence seeped into the small motel room as neither brother said anything. Sighing, Dean broke the silence, "Just, don't do that again, Sammy. I don't wanna have another repeat of what it was like when you were a kid."

Brows pulled together, "'Hell's that supposed't mean?"

"Well," Dean began in that dramatic, jackassie way of his that let Sam know his brother was going to talk for awhile, "Replace whiskey breath with Gerber breath, the bottle of Jack with a bottle of milk. Broken glass with broken toys. Sliced up hand for scratched up knees; replace the stitches with Band-Aids. And instead of diapers and shit, it was jeans and vomit: aren't you glad you didn't harff on your boxers. I know I am. I'da been traumatized even before I _got_ to hell." A singe of red splashed across Sam's face, burning his cheeks and ears, but he didn't move away from his brother, keeping his head situated under his brother's neck. Dean intentionally let out another dramatic huff--_"Probably to annoy me," _Sam thought--, placing his chin on top of his brother's head, "Either way, I still had to clean you up: you smelled like a toilet. 'End up going for a dive after puking up your stomach?"

No response.

"Sam," Dean repeated, using his free hand to nudge his brother's shoulder.

Sighing and rolling his eyes in embarrassment, Sam threw out, "No, _jackass_, I didn't dive in the toilet. Happy?"

"No, Sam," Dean sighed, annoyed, "_Really_, college-boy?" He pushed his fingers into Sam's shoulder again. "Promise me."

"Promise what?" Sam pushed out, voice hoarse.

"Don't pull a stunt like this if I don't make it," came the frank request. "Just… just stay with Bobby. Don't drown yourself in booze. Okay?"

Silence.

The sound of Dean's heartbeat filled Sam's ear; he could feel the gentle flutter of the muscle against his cheek. Each beat sent blood coursing throughout his brother's body, insuring that he was alive. The feel of his brother's thumb caressing his neck assured him that he wasn't alone.

"_Okay_?" came the stern question.

But in two weeks he knew that the beat might not being there to pump life through Dean's body, the touch might not be there to make him feel safe.

In two weeks, Sam faced the prospect of being alone.

Forever.

Sam let out a shaky breath.

"No, Dean: I promise to _save_ you."

END

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_Y__ea, the ending went back to angst. I think it's appropriate, considering what happens in season four._

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_I was originally gonna work in a revised version of my first fan fic, but it didn't happen. This is complete, but one day I may add on to it. Maybe. _

_I hope you liked the fic, KKBElVIS! _

_Thanks for reading, everyone!_

_Constructive reviews welcome._

_Mouse_


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